The Descent

It  had been like this  for  days.  You'd  think  they'd  run  out  of  air.  But  the  higher  they went, the more they  argued.

'This  is  what  we  get  for  pandering  to  civilians,'  Kora  muttered  to  Ike.  Civilians  was her catch-all: eco-tourists,  pantheist  charlatans,  trust  funders,  the  overeducated.  She was a street  girl at heart.

'They're  not so bad,' he said. 'They're  just looking for a way  into Oz, same as us.'

'Civilians.'

Ike  sighed.  At  times  like  this,  he  questioned  his  self-imposed  exile.  Living  apart from  the   world  was   not  easy.   There   was   a   price   to   be   paid   for   choosing   the less-traveled  road. Little  things,  bigger  ones.  He  was  no  longer  that  rosy-cheeked  lad

who had come with the Peace Corps. He still had the cheekbones and cowled brow  and careless mane. But a  dermatologist  on  one  of  his  treks  had  advised  him  to  stay  out  of the high-altitude sun before his face turned  to  boot  leather.  Ike  had  never  considered himself  God's  gift  to  women,  but  he  saw  no  reason  to  trash  what  looks  he  still  had. He'd  lost  two  of  his  back  molars  to  Nepal's  dearth  of  dentists,  and  another  tooth  to  a falling  rock  on  the  backside  of  Everest.  And  not  so  long  ago,  in  his  Johnnie  Walker Black  and  Camels  days,  he'd  taken  to  serious  self-abuse,  even  flirting  with  the  lethal west  face of Makalu. He'd quit the smoke and booze cold when some British  nurse  told him his voice sounded like a Rudyard  Kipling punchline. Makalu still needed slaying, of course. Though many mornings he even  wondered about that.

Exile  went  deeper  than  the  cosmetics  or  even  prime  health,  of  course.  Self-doubt came with the territory,  a wondering  about  what  might  have  been,  had  he  stayed  the course  back  in  Jackson.  Rig  work.  Stone  masonry.  Maybe  mountain  guiding  in  the Tetons,  or  outfitting  for  hunters.  No  telling.  He'd  spent  the  last  eight  years  in  Nepal and Tibet  watching himself slowly devolve  from the Golden  Boy  of  the  Himalayas  into one  more  forgotten  surrogate  of  the  American  empire.  He'd  grown  old  inside.  Even now there  were  days  when Ike  felt eighty. Next  week  was his thirty-first  birthday.

'Would you look at this?'  rose  a  cry.  'What  kind  of  mandala  is  that?  The  lines  are  all twisty.'

Ike  looked at  the  circle.  It  was  hanging  on  the  wall  like  a  luminous  moon.  Mandalas were  meditation  aids,  blueprints  for  divinity's  palaces.  Normally  they  consisted  of circles   within   circles   containing   squared   lines.   By   visualizing   it   just   so,   a   3-D architecture  was  supposed  to  appear  above  the  mandala's  flat  surface.   This   one, though, looked like scrambled snakes.

Ike  turned on his light. End of mystery,  he congratulated himself. Even he was stunned by  the sight.

'My God,' said Kora.

Where,  a  moment  before,  the  fluorescent  words  had  hung  in  magical  suspense,  a nude  corpse  stood  rigidly  propped  upon  a  stone  shelf  along  the  back  wall.  The  words weren't  written  on  stone.  They  were  written  on  him.  The  mandala  was  separate, painted on the wall to his right side.

A  set  of  rocks  formed  a  crude  stairway  up  to  his  stage,  and  various  passersby  had attached katas – long white prayer  scarves  – to cracks  in  the  stone  ceiling.  The  katas sucked back and forth in the draft like gently  disturbed ghosts.

The  man's grimace was slightly bucktoothed from mummification, and his eyes  were calcified to chalky blue marbles. Otherwise  the extreme  cold and high  altitude  had  left him  perfectly  preserved.  Under  the  harsh  beam  of  Ike's  headlamp,  the  lettering  was faint and red upon his emaciated limbs and belly and chest.

That  he was a traveler  was self-evident.  In these  regions, everyone  was  a  pilgrim  or a  nomad  or  a  salt  trader  or  a  refugee.  But,  judging  from  his  scars  and  unhealed wounds  and  a  metal  collar  around  his  neck  and  a  warped,  badly  mended  broken  left arm, this particular Marco Polo  had  endured  a  journey  beyond  imagination.  If  flesh  is memory, his body cried out a whole history of abuse and enslavement.

They  stood  beneath  the  shelf  and  goggled  at  the  suffering.  Three  of  the  women  – and  Owen  –  began  weeping.  Ike  alone  approached.  Probing  here  and  there  with  his light beam, he reached out to touch one shin with his ice ax:  hard as fossil wood.